Wolseley Hornet
One of 57 cars converted by Crayford and given away by Heinz in the 1960s.
In January 1966, Heinz invited the nation to take part in their Greatest Glow On Earth competition. Entrants were required to pair eight soups with a very 1960s array of main courses, such as oxtail soup with liver sausage salad, and complete the phrase: ‘ I like to take Heinz soup on a picnic because...’. The form, together with two soup labels, would need to reach 100 Cromer Street, WC1 before the 28th February if you wished to win one of 57 Wolseley Hornet MkII
Convertibles, henceforth known as the Heinz Hornets.
John Worth, owner of the car pictured here, perceptively remarks that his Wolseley is the sort of car that would have appealed to a young Mildred Roper from the TV sitcom George and Mildred. In fact, the competition could have easily formed a plot line for an early version of the programme, with Mildred painstakingly devising a slogan and dreaming of a new car emblazoned with M.R. logos. After all, the Wolseley
Hornet so perfectly epitomised 1960s suburban aspirations, even if the episode would have concluded with the discovery that George had lost the envelope down the pub.
Crayford Engineering undertook the conversions of these remarkable vehicles, and the result was touted as ‘the first and only cars specifically made for family fun.’ Not only did the Heinz Hornet offer tan-as-you- go motoring, but there was also a picnic hamper complete with two Thermos flasks and a plastic tablecloth. If these fittings were not sufficient inducement to consume several gallons of Cream of Tomato soup, the specification further embraced a Pye two-in- one push-button transistor radio and a Max Factor cosmetics tray beneath the dashboard. The latter apparently contained ' all the little supplies mum looks on for a long family journey.’
In fact, the specification of John Worth’s Hornet would have been pretty spectacular some 55 years ago. There are
the seat belts fore and aft, while the back seat storage compartments have been transformed into a pair of insulated food boxes ‘ to keep the salad crisp and sausages hot.’ Best of all, any picnic would be enhanced by the tartan rug, plus the kettle and the power point in the boot. ‘ Stop and have a fresh cup of tea any time you like,’ promised the advertising copy, even if the result was often a flat battery.
Use of the Hornet as the Heinz promotional vehicle represented inspired marketing, for by the mid-1960s it had established a niche with the nation’s social climbers. The leather upholstery, the walnut veneer for the instrument binnacle and the illuminated Ghost Light badge all denoted a car that was a cut above the next door neighbour’s standard Austin or Morris Mini.
The Wolseley and the slightly more expensive Riley Elf were created by Austin stylist Dick Burzi, and debuted on 12th October 1961. As compared with their more prosaic stablemates, they had a larger boot, vestigial tail fins and traditional radiator grilles. Alec Issigonis was not keen on these new models, dismissing the changes as styling gimmicks, but they were unique in the British car market. At that time perhaps their only rival was the Slough-built Citroën Bijou, but that was transport for bohemian types whereas the Wolseley belonged on the driveway of a Wimpey-built detached villa.
The price of the regular
Hornet was £672 1s 5d, while the Elf cost £693 18s 11d due to it having twin lidded glove box compartments as standard. This was not cheap by the standards of the day and the Riley was £14 more expensive than a Cooper, but their social distinction was worth every penny. As Autocar observed of the Riley on 2nd March 1962: ‘ To many, the higher price asked for this “executive Mini” (or, perhaps, executive’s wife’s Mini) will be fully justified.’ The original Hornet brochure further stated: ‘ A superior finish and a wealth of detail refinements give this smart little Wolseley a particular appeal to the lady driver in the two-car family.’
By March 1963, the MkII versions featured the 998cc A-series engine in singlecarburettor form instead of the earlier 848cc unit, increasing the top speed by 6mph. This facelift was the cue for the Riley copywriters to attain new levels of hyperbole, describing their car as ‘ compact as they come, as lively as they go... heavenly to drive, smart to be seen in... a perfect dream of a car... styled and appointed to reflect your own good taste.’ If Margot Leadbetter of The Good Life did not once drive an Elf, she really should have done.
One campaign for the Wolseley urged chaps to purchase the ‘ superb little Hornet for your wife.’ Meanwhile, the good folk at Autocar bemoaned the lack of self-parking wipers and remote control gear lever, but thought the latest Wolseley was still a very handy and likeable little car. In January 1964 a Motor Sport test of the Elf contained the memorably appalling line:
‘ I became a motoring fairy, in a Riley.’ Moreover, the Elf made ‘ an appropriate present for debutantes, daughters, wives and mistresses.’ The 1960s really were a different time and place, if not a different planet!
The Wolseley and Riley duo gained Hydrolastic suspension in 1964, and by 1966 the MkIII boasted fresh air vents and reclining front seats too. There were also winding windows, a first for a British Mini. The Clubman replaced the Elf/ Hornet in late 1969, ushering in a brave new world of Jason King hairstyles, spectacularly awful flared trousers and Hai Karate aftershave, but over the previous seven years, the booted duo had created an image that was as distinctive as that of the Cooper S
Rather surprisingly, BMC engaged in comparatively little product placement for their upmarket Minis. An Elf did guest star in the 1966 Hammer film The Witches, but that was not a production likely to enhance the careers of anyone involved. It was the Heinz competition that was the most high-profile event in the careers of the Riley and the Wolseley, one that attracted over a million hopeful entrants.
The 57 Hornets also represented the largest single
order received by Crayford, a firm that was established in 1963 by two former Lambretta employees, Jeff Smith and David McMullan. Their first product was the convertible Mini Sprint, but by 1964 there were 16 approved dealer agents and a very attractive conversion of the Ford Cortina MkI. 1965 marked the introduction of Crayford's BMC 1100 hatchback (which predated the ADO16 Countryman/ Traveller by a year), and a meeting with a senior executive from Heinz. Apparently, the Sprint that had appeared in the thriller Night Must Fall had so impressed the food manufacturer that they decided Crayford should build their next prize cars.
The venue for the discussions with Heinz was a cheap café somewhere in Kent, which does sound like the opening scene of an Edgar Wallace B-film. The competition was originally scheduled for 1965, but it was agreed it would be delayed to allow Crayford more time to complete the order. They also undertook not to build any other Hornet conversions during the run of the promotion, as they were to be billed as unavailable anywhere else. At that time, giveaway competition cars were not unusual, but the chance to win a coachbuilt vehicle was virtually unique.
The contract with Heinz gave Smith and McMullan the funds to eventually open a factory in the Kent town of Westerham, as until then they operated from their own garages. This also meant there was no space to store 57 Wolseleys over the winter, but their ingenious solution was to use the grounds of a local nudist camp, which presumably was not populated during the chillier months.
The names of the winners were announced in May 1966, with the majority of victors favouring Toga White over the other colour choice of Birch Grey. The Hornets were registered en masse, with each of them bearing an LLD -***D number plate. Today, some 41 examples are known to the Crayford Convertible Car Club.
John first encountered his Wolseley in 2009 when he was attending a car show in Dorset and another guest told him of a Heinz Hornet in a poor state of repair somewhere in
Monmouthshire. Naturally John felt duty-bound to investigate, and he eventually became the custodian of LLD 809D for £1000. This sum gained him an unused picnic hamper in an excellent state of repair, plus a Wolseley that looked as though Albert Steptoe had rejected it.
The Hornet’s condition today reflects John’s painstaking dedication, with what he describes as endless hours of patching, filling, sanding and smoothing until it was perfect.
Compact as they come, as lively as they go, heavenly to drive
One of the most challenging aspects of the refurbishment was sourcing the rear wings, which are now unavailable. Another was obtaining the seat belts; he eventually found a box of four on eBay. In terms of the actual conversion work, John wryly notes that it is nice to know that Crayford opened the Hornet in the same way that the winners opened their tins of soup – with a can opener! In reality, much of the Wolseley’s bodywork above the waistline was removed, while steel strips mounted along the door sills and beneath the rear seat added vital strength.
Many enthusiasts believe that the Hornet was better suited to the drophead treatment than a Mini, with the eight inches of extra length helping to balance the folded hood. On the road, the Hornet is remarkably solid with very little body flex at all, so Crayford clearly knew what they were doing. Naturally, the car attracts a vast amount of attention and John regards the Irvin Parachute seat belts as one of its most intriguing aspects, noting that the company went from manufacturing WW2 fighter harnesses to upmarket safety restraints within 20 years.
To see the Wolseley today is to be reminded of a 1960s that is rarely captured in the present day media. This is not a Mini with aspirations to the Carnaby Street myth, for the nearest most owners would have come to Swinging London was fulminating about Kenny Everett and those other pirate radio DJs. The 1966 advertisement urged the reader to ‘ pick up an entry form at your grocer’s’, denoting a now impossibly remote world of The Billy Cotton Band Show every Sunday. The Hornet’s radio was almost certainly tuned to the BBC Light Programme just as surely as the boot contained a windbreak.
Perhaps the most fascinating detail of John’s Hornet is the lettering on the doors. Heinz offered all prize winners the opportunity to have their initials painted on the driver’s door. This option was apparently never taken up in 1966, but Mr Worth decided that his Wolseley should be decorated with G.I.W. in tribute to his daughter. The idea was that the work would be completed in time for her 18th birthday, but the restoration took so long it ended up being her 21st birthday present instead.
In 1985, Crayford's Jeff Smith died in a motorcycle accident, and two years later
David McMullan decided to sell the company. It would be nearly impossible to select the most appealing of their many works, from the Ford Corsair Cabriolet to the Austin/ Morris 1800 Estate and the drophead HB Vauxhall Viva. However, the Hornet possessed spectacular levels of charm and was exceptionally well executed. John observes that many of its details, such as the food compartments with lids that doubled as armrests, should have been offered by BMC as regular options.
Above all, LLD 809D is also a reminder of an aspect of the BMC narrative that is too often overlooked. L.J.K. Setright may have claimed they appealed
‘ to those small-minded snobs who found the idea of a Mini intriguing but the name of Austin or Morris offensive and the evidence of austerity,’ but social aspirations helped to sell motor cars. The Wolseley and the Riley were arguably as important to the Mini in the 1960s as the Cooper, and as much evidence of modest affluence as ownership of the latest Kenwood food mixer.
Thus, we take our leave of the Wolseley with a mental image of a family such as might be depicted in Ladybird Books, at the side of the A27 somewhere near Fareham. The nice man from the RAC will be arriving any minute to re- charge the battery, and in the meantime there is the chance to complain about the wild beat music of The Troggs while enjoying a nice cup of freshly heated Cream of Celery thanks to the now- exhausted battery.
To see the Wolseley today is to be reminded of a 1960s that is rarely captured in the present day media